Friendships
by UberPest
Summary: Fraser contemplates his friendship with Ray after a disturbing case.


**Title:** Friendships

**Spoilers: **Good For the Soul

**A/N: **This one started out as a fun little piece with Fraser playing with his sword, and it took on a life of its own from there. It's another one of my oneshots from back in the day...

Thanks to Angie for the beta read and the comments, and Jim Vickers for the title heping.

**Disclaimer:** The stuff you recognize from due South is not mine, it belongs to Paul Haggis and Alliance Entertainment. "Le Manuel d'Escrime" belongs to some French writer, but I don't know who.

* * *

Fraser rolled restlessly on the worn mattress. Although he never had trouble sleeping, tonight was an exception. 'Maybe' he told himself. 'Maybe it's the storm. The thunder is causing me to awaken and keeping me from resting.' Looking at Dief asleep on the floor, however, shot the idea down. Dief hated thunderstorms and usually tried to escape upstairs to the Queen's bedroom. As if getting closer to the cause of the noise would make anything better.

Maybe it was stress keeping him up. He and Detective Vecchio had just finished a case involving a killer stalking members of the law enforcement community. It wasn't until Ray himself had been targeted and wounded, though the injury was minor, that the criminal had been brought to justice. Even with the person safely behind bars and awaiting trial, Fraser worried. He was unnerved that harm had nearly come to his friend and he was virtually powerless to help.

Standing, he tried to think of something he could do to take his mind off his troubles. He could work on his various forms required in liaison work but, like the good Mountie he was, it had been completed hours before. There was always the option of listening to the radio, but there were strangely few classical radio stations in the greater Chicago area. 'Or maybe,' he thought, 'Icould straighten my closet. It has been sadly neglected of late. Besides, Dad's always moving things about when he's in his 'office'.'

Slowly he placed the blankets back upon their shelf, the clothing back on hangars and lined his footwear neatly along the closet's floor. Glancing at the far rear of the enclosed space he noticed an object partly concealed in the shadows. Picking it up he realized that it was the sword Inspector Thatcher gave him the previous Christmas at the 27th District's annual holiday party. Stopping he pondered its significance. Detective Dewey commented on it's significance as a Freudian symbol, but Fraser thought is went far beyond that. He knew it was only worn by officers in the RCMP, but he was not an officer. Did the Inspector mean it to let him know she thought he was capable of being an officer? Surely that was what it was, as she noted it was ceremonial only.

Ceremonial only. That was what struck him as odd. It was obvious that the ceremonial function was only a cover, because there was something off color about the whole outfit. The way the hilt was reworked to fit more comfortably during use. The few tiny jewels in the guard that were missing. A ceremonial blade would have had those replaced so the sword would always look its best. Turning the blade over in his hands he noted small pock marks along the edge. They were of the type that could only get there if it had been used in combat with another blade. However the blade was kept remarkably well honed so the chips were only noticeable by a trained eye.

Lightning flashing off the flat of the blade gave it an eerie quality, and Benton wondered what this sword had seen. Battles, bar fights, over enthusiastic medieval re-creationalists?

No, that last one couldn't be right at all. This was not a medieval sword, a few hundred years at most. "Rapier," his near-perfect memory supplied. A French weapon used to uphold chivalric code. Maybe that's what the Inspector

meant. He was chivalric in his notions of justice, always doing what he felt was right. Even if it meant he placed himself in harm's way. Always protecting the weak when it was risky for himself, just like a knight in an Arthurian Legend. Knight in Red Serge. Sir Benton of the Round Table.

He remembered when he was a boy wanting to be a knight. His grandfather made him a small wooden sword ala Peter Pan's Lost Boys. He played with the toy for hours, never tiring of the games he would play, with his trusty steed, Dugan, a husky. They traveled the seven seas with Red Beard and Long John Silver, were two of Ali Babba's forty thieves, or Robin Hood's Merry Men. He always wanted to be Will Scarlet, his favorite character from the tales, while Dugan was always Little John. Not much on brains, but had a good heart.

He put the rapier through a series of defensive parries he'd learned, like his boxing skills, from a book in his grandparents' library, "Le Manuel d' Escrime". He'd never had opportunity to use the knowledge, but it never hurt to know. He was recovering from a slightly off balance lunge when he toppled at the sound of his father's voice.

"Ah, I remember when I spent some time with Sirus Meuller in Whitehorse. He was always playing with swords. Lost his pinkie one winter when he thought it would be a good idea to chop wood with a Claymore. You should be more careful, son. Almost cost me my chance at having grandchildren."

Fraser glanced down at his lap, where the sword had fallen when he lost balance, and turned a deep shade of red at the implications his father was suggesting. "Yes, well, if you hadn't snuck up on me like that, I would have been fine."

"No you wouldn't, your feet were all wrong, and besides, what would you have me do? Knock? On what? An imaginary door? This is your hallucination you know. You could at least have had the courtesy to imagine me in pajamas. It is three in the morning for goodness sake."

"Or with duct tape across your mouth," he mumbled in response.

"What was that? I didn't catch what you said? Hearing goes in your old age you know."

"Your hearing is gone because you're dead. What I said was 'Or with ... Nevermind, it's not important."

"What's bothering you tonight son? You should be asleep now. You have to do your duty in the morning."

"That's just it, Dad, it's not doing my duty... or something. I'm not sure. I mean, I don't know if I'm just not tired, or if I'm worried that I couldn't protect my friend from a criminal determined to cause harm to him. I feel I let him down in some way."

Bob settled into Benton's desk chair. "You know, when Gieger stabbed Buck in the leg I was mortified. We were some of the best The Territories had ever seen, and yet someone had overcome one of us and hurt him. What should I have felt like?" Ben shook his head. "I talked to Buck and let him know how I felt. He told me I was acting foolish but he appreciated my concern. It was one of those bad situations that something good came of. We learned that even though we were good, we weren't invincible. Made us closer friends. Trust me , something always good comes of things like this."

Fraser nodded, digesting the information. His father was often right about these things. He would let Ray know how he felt in the morning.

Bob sighed, moving from behind Benton's desk. "Well, I need sleep--"

"You don't sleep, Dad. You're dead."

"I've got the memory of sleep. Anyway, I have things to do tomorrow. Wax the runners on my dog sled, stock up on supplies before the snow flies. You know how it is."

"It's May, Dad. There won't be any more snow for at least four more months."

"So there won't. Gotta be prepared you know."

"I know." Pemmican, knife, compass...

Bob entered Fraser's closet.

"Dad?"

Bob turned back to his son.

"Thanks for listening. I needed that."

"Any time son, any time."


End file.
